


Lance's Guide on How to Die

by minorthirds



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Klance Mainsail But One Of Those Fics Where Lance Accidentally Has Game Sort Of, M/M, Other, Some Canon Age Changing Tomfoolery, Trust Me It Will Make Sense, indefinite hiatus bcs i dont really like writing for things people have ship wars over, urban fantasy au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 19:02:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7544230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minorthirds/pseuds/minorthirds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>This is the story of how I died, and everything that came after.</i><br/><br/>Or: the one in which Lance becomes a monster and finds out what it means to be human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lance's Guide on How to Die

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astrologians](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrologians/gifts).



> listen idk if the chapters are going to stay this short but,  
> i have several wip projects that have huuuge chapter sizes so i'm gonna change it up a bit! this fic lends itself best to being more episodic anyway.
> 
> THAT SAID hey everybody it's roan back at it again after waaaay too long of a dry spell! i don't have a lot to say besides the fact that this fic is dedicated to my gf, the incomparable jules [jacqgel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jacqgel) \-- she deserves a damn lot of credit for this too considering that this fic is coming adapted from an au of some dragon age ocs of ours (lol if you know us on twitter, this fic has lehrankieran roots); i'll probably have her beta several chapters but this one is raw because i'm impatient and wanna surprise her oops
> 
> i think that's it, so let's do this thing!

* * *

 

_This is the story of how I died, and everything that came after._

_Listen. Between you and me, I’m not that great of a storyteller. Unless you’re six and scared of everything from alpacas to zucchini. But like some Brits who crossed a street once, I get by with a little help from my friends._

_Maybe some parts of this story are exaggerated, but, hey, who hasn’t heard a fishing tale involving a fifteen-foot mahi-mahi? What’s important is that it’s all true. More or less._

_So, uh, if you’ve got your s’mores and popcorn ready, let’s get going._

 

* * *

  _i._

* * *

 

Lance is laying almost-facedown in a ravine when he blinks awake, and the first thing he thinks is _I’m going to die here._

He can’t move for two reasons.

One: His arm is pinned under him, and there’s a weight on his leg that might be a fallen maple sapling.

Two: His entire body feels like the garbage truck picked him up, jostled him around a bit, and then someone found him in the landfill and took him home to run through the wash.

His mouth tastes like dirt and there’s probably an oak leaf poking him in the eye, so he groans a little bit – just to do it, a long-suffering noise like a plea to God – and screws his eyes shut for five seconds, praying that when he wakes up he’ll see his bedroom wall, the one with the Green Day poster hanging a little cock-eyed _for character._

(Oh, Christ, he can hear his mother in his head, hounding him to tidy up his room for once, _to be a better example for your siblings, Lance!_

He’d die for some chicken noodle soup right now. Fond memories of faking sick in third grade right this second.)

Somewhere in his snot-filled eight-year-old reverie Lance figures out that he’s hearing voices.

Like, voices up the hill voices. A high tenor and a baritone, crashing through the underbrush.

“—Vileplume around here somewhere,” the tenor is saying, maybe, “and I’m gonna catch that fucker or die trying—“

“ _Language,_ Katie,” the second voice cuts in, sounding tired.

“ _Shh!_ Don’t call me that in public! And I’m not _twelve, Shiro–_ “

“We’re in the middle of the woods,” Shiro sighs. “And I _know,_ but still.”

“It’s _public,_ ” Not-Katie stresses, “because there’s a Vileplume on the radar and I’m not the only one risking poison ivy rash for it by a long shot. Have you _met_ our friends? GO takes you everywhere, someone found a dead body—“

Lance shifts by accident and jostles his leg.

A flash of pain zips up his side, and he lets out a defeated groan – and above him, the voices grow silent.

“Oh, my God,” says Not-Katie, probably (it’s hazy, since Lance is _dying_ ).

“Stay right there,” Shiro interrupts, and there’s a crash of leaves like he’s sliding down the ravine.

Lance’s vision swims, dims, and with his last thought he’s supposing that he’s not sure if Shiro-Guy told him or Not-Katie to stay put.

He’s not exactly going anywh—

 

* * *

 

Wake, take two.

There’s a pressure on his mouth, heavy and warm, and he’s not sure if it’s, like, a hand on his mouth or what – until his eyes open like half-moons and he’s peeking sultry up at a well-muscled man with a tuft of white hair dusting his brow, sitting back and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

_What—_

“…the fuck?” Lance starts to say aloud, but his voice is raspy like he’s been chewing on gravel and hurts the same, so he winces and stops talking. For once.

“Don’t freak out,” White-Hair-Guy says, and Lance’s vision clears enough to take note of the scar across his nose.

Predictably, Lance freaks out.

Strange dude’s bed, strange dude’s house, strange dude just _kissed him –_

His haphazard attempt to flee ends with his legs tangled in the bedsheets and a protesting throb from his right calf.

The Guy raises his hand in a placating gesture, and some part of Lance’s brain that’s not currently engaged in Freak-Out Mode takes note of the definition of his biceps appreciatively, highlighted by his V-neck black long-sleeved shirt.

“I’m not going to hurt you, man,” he says slowly. “I’m on your side here. You were laying in a ditch in the woods—“

“Oh, shit,” Lance says, though kind-of drowsily, like he’s half-awake and half-inebriated, his head still swimming a little in the leaves.

Bad metaphor. No water in those woods.

“Are you that Shiro guy?”

The Guy pauses, mouth slightly open.

“Heard you talking,” Lance says, sinking down a bit into the pillow, marginally more trusting of a guy that would attend someone Vileplume-hunting in the middle of the forest to make sure they didn’t end up – like Lance, probably. “You and K—“

“Pidge,” Shiro interrupts suddenly. “I was with Pidge.”

Lance blinks, raises an eyebrow, his brain refusing to do the mental gymnastics to associate a different name with the voice he had heard. “Definitely heard you calling her K—“

“ _Pidge,_ ” Shiro says again, his eyebrows drawing together in a Lance’s-Dad-like expression, something like “son, close your mouth, I’m in the right here”.

“Aye, aye,” Lance acquiesces, raising his hand about to his chest with all the energy he can muster, which kind of sabotages the admiral salute he had been attempting.

Interrupting the brief half-second of silence when Lance’s hand drops to the blanket, his stomach lets out a growling complaint.

Shiro Looks at him. Capital-L Looks, with a scrutiny that has Lance on the defensive, about to say something like “what the fuck, it’s not _my_ fault, I’ve been _unconscious_ —“

–but then Shiro leans in suddenly, seated on the edge of his bed, his eyelids drooping like he’s about to—

“—what the _fuck,_ dude,” Lance complains, pushing Shiro back with a hand on his chest. “Take me to dinner first, maybe?”

His face feels hot, like he’s flushed with embarrassment. He’s got _every right to be,_ damn it, this dude is coming onto him _strong,_ strong enough that Lance himself is flustered for once in his miserable virgin life.

Sitting back, Shiro gawks at him in open-mouthed confusion. “What?”

Lance’s blush spreads like wildfire down his neck. “What do you mean, _what?_ This is _really creepy,_ you know? You took me back to your _house,_ and now you’re trying to put the moves—“

Shiro covers his mouth. “Oh, shit,” he murmurs into his palm.

“Oh shit _what?”_ Lance is about to smack this guy clear in the nose, swear to God.

“You don’t know. You really don’t know.”

“I might be eight inches from a shallow grave but damn it if I won’t take you with me,” Lance threatens, squaring his shoulders as threateningly as he can though he knows he looks pathetic drowned in the white blankets of a queen-sized bed.

Shiro looks at him over his hand, clearly nonplussed, though concerned about Lance not knowing – whatever it is he doesn’t know.

He spreads his fingers, apparently so he can speak more clearly through them.

“Don’t freak out,” he says, again – _not_ confidence-inspiring. “But you’re an incubus.”


End file.
